The window seat became theirs without discussion.
By the third week, it was understood: if Arjun arrived first, he saved it. If Mira arrived first, she guarded it like territory. Anyone who tried to sit there received her polite but immovable smile.
"Taken," she'd say.
And that was that.
Rituals form faster than friendships.
Every morning she arrived with a new story. A bus argument. A strange dream. A dramatic retelling of something small enough to be meaningless to everyone else.
Except him.
Arjun didn't talk much, but he listened with precision. He remembered details Mira forgot she had shared. The name of her childhood dog. The teacher she hated in school. Her secret fear of elevators.
"You remember everything," she accused one day.
"You say everything," he replied.
She grinned. "Fair."
They began studying together out of convenience.
Then habit.
Then preference.
The library became their second territory. They sat across from each other, pretending discipline. Mira lasted exactly twenty minutes before whispering.
"I'm bored."
"You've been bored since birth," Arjun said without looking up.
She kicked his shoe lightly.
"Entertain me."
He slid a paper across the table.
On it he'd drawn a terrible cartoon version of her.
Wild hair. Giant eyes. Dramatic expression.
She gasped in betrayal.
"That's slander."
"It's accurate," he said calmly.
She laughed too loudly and the librarian glared.
They dissolved into silent shaking laughter.
Some friendships are built on shared intelligence.
Theirs was built on shared stupidity.
And it worked.
One rainy afternoon the campus flooded. Classes were cancelled mid-lecture. Students cheered and ran outside.
Mira dragged him into the rain.
"Live a little!" she shouted.
"I am living," he protested. "Dry!"
She spun with her arms open, soaked instantly.
"Look at you," she said. "You're scared of weather."
"I'm scared of pneumonia."
She grabbed his hand and pulled.
For a second he resisted.
Then he stepped forward.
Cold rain crashed over him. Shoes ruined. Hair flattened.
He laughed.
A real laugh. Loud and unguarded.
Mira stared at him like she'd discovered treasure.
"There you are," she said softly.
He didn't know what she meant.
But he felt seen.
That evening, walking home under a shared umbrella, silence sat comfortably between them.
Not empty.
Full.
"You're different with me," Mira said suddenly.
Arjun glanced at her. "Different how?"
"Less hidden," she replied.
He considered this.
"You're loud enough for both of us," he said.
She smiled.
"Good. Stay."
The word slipped out casually.
But it landed deep.
Stay.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Just… stay.
And without realizing it,
he already had.